Until The Day I Die
by Ravager Zero
Summary: Modern AU. Anna reminisces about the love of her life; the good times and the bad. This is the story of how they met, how they lived, and how eventually Anna was forced to move on. [Hanna, Elsanna, (no incest), Kristanna]
1. Reminisence

**AN:** Something short, took me ninety minutes (challenging myself). Trying to find time to write with my new job taking a lot of it. I do hope you like what you read here. Be warned though, it's angsty, and tragic, and there are some passing mentions of unpleasant things.

* * *

I'm sitting on the couch, hair falling over my face—well, I'm lying on the couch actually, using the armrest like a pillow. It's Elsa's couch, and it's actually kinda comfortable like this. I'm only half watching her. We're fighting, and the words are getting heated, but I can't seem to make myself move this time. She looks beautiful. She always did. Sharp featured, some might say. Not me. She has a kind face, but it's always been a bit gaunt. Like she could never put on weight. That's what the fight's about. I'm not really paying attention—she's wearing a low cut top, and it's effectively distracting. To anyone she might walk past. But we're at home, in the front hall. It's the loudest argument we ever had. It's when I learned the truth.

"Elsa!" I shouted. "Why do you keep shutting me out?"

I can see the hurt on her face. I haven't just hit a nerve. It's like she just fell apart on the inside and her body is simply a shell holding her shape. She strides closer, I always think she's going to slap me or something. I forget often that she's not the violent type—I spent too long being dominated and abused by Hans. It's not a memory I dwell on. Elsa sags against me; she's heavy, and trying to hold her up actually takes some strength. Good thing I've always been the physical one. But it's more than that, the way she seems to be falling apart. I ask that question; I've heard it so many times, but I'm still amazed I said it that way.

"What are you so afraid of?"

And when she whispers in my ear, we're suddenly both on the floor, spent. We don't fight anymore. There's no use. I'm stubborn and she's right. She could be stubborn too, but nothing like me. She whispered in my ear, and those words echo through every day we spent together.

"Dying. Anna… I–I never wanted to hurt you."

It was a hell of a shock, figuring it out. Why she was so thin, how easily she would bruise, those weekly visits to the doctor. We'd only been going out two months then. She hadn't known at first. Hadn't really warmed to me either. That, however, may have been because I hit her with my motorbike. I broke her leg so badly it needed steel pins to put it back together. She was afraid she'd never dance again. But she did, waltzing slowly one night with me after her physiotherapist told her she could put some weight on her legs if she was careful not to overdo it. It was the most romantic dance we ever shared back then. At least, upright.

I visited her in hospital every day that I could. She couldn't stand me at first, but she didn't call out harassment or anything either. I think she might have seen the marks Hans was leaving on my skin. Then she saw me with a broken nose, and a bandage over my wrist. She didn't see all the bruises on my chest, or the cracked ribs, or the two-inch puncture wound beneath my breasts. She hadn't seen me for a week, and she was starting to get worried—I hadn't even given her my number, she'd been so frosty towards me.

But we warmed to each other. I wandered around like the walking wounded I was. Hans had pushed me too far, and I'd nearly done something unforgivable. The cops got involved, and now Hans is stuck behind bars for at least five-to-ten. When Elsa learned about that she told me that if he ever laid a hand on me again, she would personally castrate him and feed him his testicles. I laughed until I saw that look on her face. She was furious, and it was terrifying. I had no idea how she could be that scary one moment, then start asking me about my day the next.

We fought between then and now, of course; all couples do. We just didn't let it come between us; until I found out she'd always been hiding something from me. That fight, in the hall. It was our worst, but it set the tone for our new relationship. We made the most of what time we did have. I dropped down to part time to help Elsa around the house. It was hard sometimes, watching her coming home from treatments. Watching the pain wracking her body. Throwing up afterwards, for days. I think the worst part was when she started losing her hair. We both wept over that. Beautiful platinum tresses, and when the morning sun hit them right they turned into liquid gold across our sheets.

The argument's still going. We're still on the floor. I know what's coming, but it still hits me like a runaway freight train. Everything made sense. Why she kept pushing me away, too. She didn't realize how worthy she was of love and affection, despite all she'd done; all she'd suffered through. Three little words, that even now, reduced me to tears. Five words. A ton of bricks to go with that freight train. I said I was devastated when I told Kristoff about it—I just had to tell _someone_. That word just didn't do how I felt justice. The deepest, darkest, blackest pit, devoid of all hope. That's where I went. Until I realized an amazing quote from that interminably long movie about rings that make people invisible and can control the world—I simply couldn't sit still though it long enough to understand it. Anyway, that quote: "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

Suddenly Elsa's words weren't quite so scary. "I have cancer. It's incurable."

The lead weight was still there, and the tears never stopped, but I had already decided what I would do with the time that was given to me. I would help Elsa _live_; for however long she had left. We did… everything. She didn't bother with a bucket list. She started small, experiencing life through my eyes. She loved my bike—she was never scared of it, she just didn't know how to ride, but I was okay with that. Not everyone is born to be a biker.

Now the fight is over, and the floor turned into the wall, so it looks like we're defying gravity. A slim hand, with long, slender fingers reaches out across my field of view.

"Anna, why were you recording us?"

"I had a surprise for you. I wanted to see your face when I—"

The screen goes black. I forgot what my big surprise was. I just remember we found it somewhere in the attic three days later, after I'd had some time to recover from hearing that news. I remember another discussion we had. I said I would love Elsa to the end of time. She asked me why, gave some silly reasons why immortality would really, really suck. Especially if you had to watch everyone you ever loved slowly dying. She said it wouldn't work, you'd have to become some kind of hermit. I countered that you would have been richer for having known and loved all these people. Wouldn't the love of an immortal have been stronger, knowing they would always lose that which they loved most?

Elsa began weeping when I said that, and I suddenly knew we hadn't been talking about immortality, or loving people until the end of time—romantic as it sounded. We had been talking about _us_. Elsa saw herself as the mortal; saw me as the immortal. My memories of our time together are still my most treasured possessions. I watch this video because it brings them all back. We didn't record much—we were too busy experiencing it. But this one, above all the others, was where we really knew we loved each other. Because I asked that question, and she told me the truth. No matter how much the truth had hurt, it had opened our hearts. I knew I could never love another person as much as I loved her, but I would try. I would be richer for the experience.

I thumbed the TV off with the remote. I think I was crying. Probably. Every year I do this to remind me of who I lost—of who the world lost. And on this little video, forever perfect, ageless, timeless, and beautiful, the love of my life was preserved. I wondered then, if perhaps she was the immortal one. Any time I wanted I could watch one of our few videos; see her face, her smile, the way she would brush my hair from my eyes going for a kiss. Her laugh, so rich and playful. Her voice, like ice, or silk, or husky having just awoken. I recorded some of the bad times too—I had to, because even then she was still beautiful to me, and I had to make her see it. In her darkest days—in her final hours—I gave her hope. She left the world more loved than she'll ever know. I can't keep it in anymore, and the tears flow freely.

"Mommy… are you okay?" Joan was home from school. It's hard to believe I forgot how late it was. Or did I? Maybe I just lost track of time. It always happens on this day. But I have to reassure my daughter. I find I'm doing it more and more—I think I might need help. Maybe life is just getting rougher at school. I'll talk to Kristoff later. He can help me. But not right now.

"Hello Joan. I–I'm not okay," I think there might have been sniffling. Joan handed me the tissues. "You remember aunty Elsa?"

"I'm so sorry mommy, I forgot today was her birthday. Can I go make her a card?"

I can't speak anymore, so I just nod. It's getting harder. I got the flowers in the morning. White crocuses, her favourite. The rest of the day passes in a blur. Kristoff comes home with his traditional gift; a snowglobe of a city we never got to visit. Just before dinner we go to the cemetery. To the crypt. My life savings went into that, to make sure she got a more than proper burial. I'm the only one with a key. Kristoff borrowed it yesterday to clean. We're there before I know it.

Those words I said—that I would love Elsa until the end of time—they were true. I love Kristoff, but it's not the same as what I shared with Elsa. Nothing is. But he's my rock now, and I need him more than I care to admit. He knows it though, and I appreciate that he doesn't bring it up on days like this. Elsa's birthday is sacrosanct. We all place our offerings and light a votive candle for the love of my life. Then everyone else leaves, waiting quietly outside. Tears streaming down my face, I say the words, and hope I can be strong enough to do this again next year, and the next, and the next, until the day I die. Because I will love her until the end of my days.

"I love you Elsa. Always," my throat clenches, and I have to choke out the next few words. I have to accept that she's gone, and I only have those memories of her now. I have to try and move on, even though I know I never will. I have to try. For my family. Before I do something… bad. So I say the words that hurt so much every time I think I can never say them again. "Sleep now, in peace, my sweet princess. I miss you."

One word, one more word, and I can leave, but it's like a weight in my stomach. Just saying it isn't any kind of relief. But I have to. Just like I have to turn around, and leave her in peace for another year. It takes me nine minutes before I can say that last word. Before I can even think about starting to move on. But I can say it this time. I just don't know how many more I have left in me.

"Goodbye."


	2. Crash

**AN:** Ideas are dangerous things. I had one for a modern Elsanna, expanding on this self-same story. The world just came to me, and I knew I had to do it. There will be feels, and laughter, and doomed romance. All the classics. If you have comments or criticism, don't hesitate to leave a review or send me a PM; I promise I won't bite.

* * *

Joan has her eyes. That piercing, crystalline blue. She's our daughter—all three of us, even if one of us dead now. Elsa… losing you was the hardest thing in my life. It still is. I doubt anything will compare to what we had, but Kristoff has always been understanding and supportive. And yes, sometimes we 'do it', you great prude. But us, you and me, we made love. There's an indefinable difference there, and somehow I've never felt for Kristoff what I felt for you. Sixteen years, and yes, we have passion, but that great spark, it's just not as strong. I think I might be rambling though, because I started talking about Joan, and now I'm talking about Kristoff.

Okay, take two. Joan has her eyes. Elsa's eyes. It makes sense, because Elsa provided the donor egg. Kristoff, uh, helped. I provided a womb in which to grow our daughter of three parents. But only after—because Elsa was smart enough to know that I wouldn't be strong enough to do it until after she was gone. That I wouldn't want to. Elsa will never get to see her daughter, but at least Joan can see her, in the pictures around the house, in the videos we made, in my occasional, longing writings. Joan's fifteen, she's a smart kid, really bright, like you were Elsa. She's not a dancer though, she's a fighter—I mean, an actual, proper fighter, err, fencer. Historical, she keeps telling me. I've watched her, and it's so fluid and graceful I can't help but see you there sometimes, waving that longsword around. You'd be proud of her, I'm sure of it. My strength, your grace, Kristoff's wit—well, maybe not so proud of that part.

She's started asking about you, Elsa. Properly. She's always known I cared. She knows we loved each other, and that we were involved sexually—and I can see your blush from here, it makes the heavens glow, you stinker. Anyway, she asked about us. Not just you—but she does want to know about you an awful lot—but us. _Us_. She knows we were together now, and I kinda want to reward that, y'know? I will. I'm going to tell her our story. And if you happen to offer input, well, I won't turn it away. It sucks you never do, you know that, right? All those threats about haunting me if I kissed you that last time—because dammit, your lips still smelled like strawberry, and I'm totally not sorry for weirding out all those people in the church. I think one or two of them were jealous actually. God knows you looked good enough.

But here we are, I'm sitting on the couch, legs crossed, doing nothing in particular with my thirty-nine year—okay, fine—forty-one year old body. I've got a bowl of popcorn and a box of maltesers. Umm, yeah, they're maltesers this time. Joan got back from high school about an hour ago, and thankfully it's Kristoff's turn to cook, so we can both talk as long as we want. Could turn out to be a while. Joan actually looks a little pale. Apprehensive. Perhaps even afraid. So I move over to her, wrap my arms around her shoulders. She doesn't try and break away like she used to. Like you used to, stinker. So I've got my arms around her shoulders, and she just leans into my chest, lets her braid fall past me. I can hear some sniffling coming from my daughter. I don't like it. I don't like it when anyone is sad—even though sometimes we have to be.

"Mom?" it's tentative, unsure, like she's sounding me out. I have an idea where this might be going.

"Yes, Joan?"

"Can you—can you tell me about auntie Elsa?" which really was not what I had been expecting. I mean sure, someday I expected she would want to hear it. But not today, just some random Tuesday. I guess life is just messy like that. I told you it was, and you never wanted to believe me—until our first night together. God that was hilarious. And sexy. And fun. And I wish we'd had more like it, the passion, the fumbling, the desire. I guess we did. Less fumbling though. That's not what Joan means though—maybe when she's a little older she can hear that part, though I did give her the talk a couple years back now.

"It's a long story, Joan. Sad, too," it's not an excuse, I'm just making sure she knows what she's in for. "So I guess I should probably start at the beginning, when I hit her with my bike."

"You what!" Oh, right, I haven't actually told her this part of the story properly yet—I just said I was visiting you in hospital, an old friend. Well, time to put a few little lies to bed then.

"It all started eighteen years ago, I was a young twenty-something wannabe with a bike, my riding gear, and not a whole lot else. Thank Kristoff for keeping me going there too."

"You hit auntie Elsa with your _bike?_" She seems to be a little stuck there right now.

"I did."

"Your. Bike." Clearly she's having some sort of trouble processing this revelation. Makes sense, really. It's not every day you find out your surrogate parent nearly killed your biological mother in a high speed collision. At the time, of course, I had no way of knowing it was a deliberate act. Truck in front of me swerved to avoid something, so I swung wide, throttling down. That's when the blonde in the middle of the road jumped at me. I hit the brakes, turned broadside and slid fifty feet. I could actually feel something breaking under the rear wheel of my bike. I take my time to explain all this to Joan, and her eyes, when she turns to look up at me, are full of fire.

"You nearly killed auntie Elsa?!"

"She—" it's hard to say, even now. Even after sixteen and a half years. I know why you did it, and there's part of me that hated you for it, for the longest time, and you knew it. I made sure you did so you never did anything that stupid ever again. But there's another part of me, small, and alone, but it can't help but love your actions. Because if you hadn't jumped out then, maybe the car behind me would have hit you, and you'd've been dead—and I would live my life never knowing what true love was, or how to treat myself properly. Shit… Hans might have killed me, in the end, if you hadn't thrown yourself at me in your stupid suicide attempt. "—She wanted to die, Joan, baby. She just found out."

"About the cancer?"

"Yes." And now, this is where our story really starts, doesn't it? A literal 'crash into hello'. So now all I've got to do is take a deep breath, and then I'll be able to tell our daughter everything.

—∞—

It was my first Ninja, a beautiful Kawasaki bike, and I'd just picked it up from the shop after getting the engine tuned for better mid-range. More useful around the city. I was on my way back from work, Lzzy Hale singing in my ear about tired mechanical hearts, and Lindsey Stirling starting up with that amazing violin work she always does. Shatter Me—that was the song. It's a good one, and that's what it felt like when I saw the blonde goddess step out into the street—shattered, I mean. She wasn't looking, and a truck had just swerved across the other lane to avoid her, narrowly missing an oncoming SUV. I could hear the brakes screeching as she turned to the left, staring at me. I already knew it was too late.

She moved towards me, not trying to avoid my bike. I'd already slammed on the brakes, but there was just enough water from the afternoon rains to make my bike fishtail. I was already horrified and paralyzed, frozen with one hand on the brakes, and one leg desperately trying to push the bike aside. It was too late, and I felt the crash as my rear wheel encountered something less durable than the asphalt. I could feel the crack through the frame of my bike. I actually heard the crack as my music cut out. The scream. She screamed as the tail of my bike slammed into her leg and I slid into the kerb. I could hear the squeal of brakes behind me as I was half-thrown from the seat of the Ninja, landing hard, skidding several feet on the sidewalk.

Somehow—I don't know how, really—I found myself quite close to the woman. I was kind of dazed by the impact, but I threw my helmet off and ran back to the blonde. It was bad. I think she must have blacked out, because the screaming had stopped—but I could tell her leg was a mess. Her right leg, white fragments of bone sticking out of her shin, her knee swollen, and blood pooling through her jeans and onto the road. Her thigh was worse, a spear of bone sticking out two inches from her torn and bloodied jeans. I'm not sure I had the presence of mind to call an ambulance, but I did manage to wrap my jacket around her. That was when I saw the car, stopped just short of us, bumper only inches from the young woman I'd hit.

I was sitting behind her, sort of cradling her in my arms. That's what the jacket was for, to keep her warm to prevent shock. I'll admit now I hadn't done much first aid, but I remember watching scenes like this in a lot of movies, and everyone always got a jacket or a blanket. So she got mine. It was the least I could do. I brushed her hair aside, out of her face, because some of it had gotten tangled.

I really got a good look at her face then. If I wasn't already down on my knees I would've doubled over in shock. It felt like I'd tried to kill an angel—except, this one was broken. Her skin was sallow, pale, almost lacking any colour at all. Her jawline was sharp, and she had cheekbones I could kill for, but the gauntness of her face was enough to destroy that beauty. But I saw deeper, not what she was, but what she could have been—and I'd nearly killed her. I was terrified of what I'd done, and it was all I could do just to sit there, cradling her in my arms. She woke up, or regained consciousness, or whatever the proper term is after passing out from shock. But her first words weren't to blame me, or to try and force everyone back. They didn't even sound pained, though they were distant.

"You're hurt."

I felt her delicate fingers tracing a line down my cheek, and her fingertips came away red and bloody. That was my blood. I couldn't feel anything. I noticed then that my wrist was sore, and my left ankle felt like it was on fire. Probably broken, or at the least very badly sprained. It wasn't long before an ambulance arrived, and for expediency's sake, I guess, we were both loaded on to the same vehicle. She never pressed charges—I only figured out why later though. Still had my license temporarily suspended while the cops investigated the accident. Hans told me he pulled some strings to make sure I wouldn't be convicted. Back then I was naive and desperate enough to believe him.

—∞—

Looking over at Joan, I know I can't tell her what Hans was really like, what he did to me, nearly every day. How illegal it was, and how scared I was. He abused his power as an officer of the law, and it took Kristoff and Elsa together to give me the courage to finally leave him. That was also the night I got stabbed—and the night I nearly let the world go on without me. So I turn to Joan, and ask what is, for me, a hard question—because it feels like I'm betraying something, even though it's nonsense.

"Is is okay if I don't tell you about Hans?"

"It's fine mom," here Joan reaches out to reassure me, her hands over mine. It's a gentle warmth, acceptance. She's smart, too. "I know they're bad memories—and that's why I never ask about them. And… and I know it hurts to talk about auntie Elsa, but you loved her so much, and I really want to know why."

Sometimes I think she's too good for me. Too good for us, really. If you're up there, I hope you're smiling down on her, because she deserves all your love and encouragement. Don't let her go. Watch over her—she's your daughter too, and maybe more yours than mine, you stinker. She's got your stubborn streak, your eyes, and Kristoff's nose—which might be considered unlucky in certain circles. She did get my sense of humour though, so I think we're even.

"You'll learn why soon enough baby," I wink at our daughter. "And it wasn't just the tongue thing either."

"Eww, mom, gross!" Now I have to dodge a cushion, and I'm not quite as fast as I used to be, so I get a face full of dusty fabric. Which reminds me, it's Joan's turn to do the dusting and the vacuuming again. I've got laundry, and Kristoff's got kitchen duties. And while I'm thinking this, she's still wailing on me with the pillow, so I grab it and hold firm.

"Like you never kissed a girl," I can't resist teasing her sometimes. Especially because I'd just come around to pick her up from a party and caught her in the act. Apparently it was humiliating, because a) she got caught, b) she got caught kissing a girl, c) she got caught kissing a girl by her mom, and finally, d) she got caught kissing a girl by her mom while leaving a party. I never judged her for it—but I did need to edit the version of the talk I gave her to make sure she knew it was okay; it didn't matter who she loved, as long as they loved her back. At least, that's the way I've always felt it should be.

"One time, mom. One freaking time." But I can see the smile she's trying desperately to hide. Her name is Tina, and she's adorably tiny compared to Joan. Everyone calls her Tink, after Tinkerbell, because of the short hair and manic energy—and because her best friend is Peter. She comes over every now and then, and Joan claims they're 'just good friends', but I have my suspicions.

"You've got some chores you need to do, and you've got fencing tonight."

"I know," maybe I sound like a broken record to her, but I swear she also inherited my organizational skills, rather less fun than my sense of humour.

"I'll continue the story at bedtime… how's that?"

"Mo–om."

I shrug, and sigh. I know she'll listen anyway, and once I'm gone, she'll be out of the covers and on her computer again. I know what I was like at that age. It's hard for her to appreciate that I was there too, once; so I can actually sympathize. Probably just a rebellious phase, testing out the boundaries we've established for her. Me and Kristoff, that is; both physical and mental. Places she shouldn't go, things she shouldn't do, things she should never have to learn. Is it so bad we want to protect her? And is it wrong that I want you to protect her too, Elsa? Am I just losing my mind, or am I properly paying my respects? I don't know anymore. Sixteen years and that line has faded so much I have no idea where it is now. I have to talk to Kristoff when he gets home—he'll be able to steer me safely through the chaos, like he always has.


	3. Stonewalled

She got home a wreck—Joan, I mean. It was a particularly hard night at fencing, apparently, and she's sporting a few new bruises. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was being hurt like I was—but she wears these marks with pride, and there's not a hint of fear about her when any kind of conflict might be involved. I wish I'd had that kind of courage, but maybe I wouldn't have met you then, Elsa. I wordlessly direct our daughter to the shower, holding my nose with one hand, and as she walks past she sticks out her tongue. So very lady like. Kristoff's wit and my sense of humour, which is surely a dangerous combination when we add your brain power in there.

She takes forever in that shower, I swear to god. I'm glad we got a recycler unit for the thing, the power and water savings are insane. You'd have liked that technology too, because apparently it came from a NASA project. I guess that's one regret we'll always share… we never did get to that weightless dancing, though I'm sure I would have had the tact and grace of a baked potato. What? You know how, uhh, 'well', I danced those few times. At least you were a good sport.

I can hear the shower hissing away, and the water suddenly stops. It's like that, actually; no post-flow. We're big on saving the environment here—with the exception of my bike, which only comes out on weekends and special occasions. And I'm rambling in my thoughts because I've never been good at waiting and now Joan is walking past me, still dripping, towel wrapped around her middle. Her left arm isn't just bruised; there's a gash six inches long running from her shoulder to her elbow.

"Joan, baby, are you alright?" I couldn't help myself. "Who did this to you?!"

"Mom, fencing. It happens."

I can only nod. It has happened before, but not this bad. "It doesn't happen to you."

"It does mom, why do you think I spent three weeks last summer not wearing tank tops?"

"I just thought you were getting cold," which was a lie, because I'd seen the marks, but I'd managed to put two and two together before calling the cops. Before telling Kristoff about it, even. But this was new, it meant something had obviously gone wrong. Badly. And I tend to get concerned when she gets hurt because she's all I've got left of you. Well, I've got the videos and the pictures, but she… she has your essence, Elsa. That bright spark that was your soul, she's got a fraction of it. I don't want to lose you again. A hand was waving in front of me.

"Mom?" She's smiling, hand on my shoulder. "You just zoned out there for a second. I'm fine, okay?"

"No. Wait, yes. No—" I sigh, because I know I'm not gonna be happy until I get to the bottom of this, even if it is an accident. "Will you tell me what happened, please?"

"Can I at least get dressed first?" Oh, right, she's still only wearing a towel, dripping onto the hardwood floor of the hallway. Well, at least she avoided the rug this time. I let her go. She'll be back shortly. Well, she'll invite me in, because there's nowhere really to sit and talk in the upstairs hall. Speaking of which, you remember the time we were… with just our socks, racing up and down this hall? I loved your laugh so much that day; because you were happy like a child, and so was I, and we didn't have to worry about cancers or ex-husbands or even extra shifts at work the next day. It was always the little things, wasn't it?

"Mom, you can come in now," and Joan's head disappears back behind the frame of her door. She's actually under the covers by the time I get there, but I can hear her computer humming in the background, music playing quietly as we begin to talk. I didn't know she liked Cat Stevens, but there it is. Or maybe she's playing it because she knows I like this one, and it's to set me at ease. It's working too, the soft, subtle guitar melodies. I still take her arm in my hands, inspecting the cut. It doesn't look very deep, but it is kind of rough.

"You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine mom, it just stings a little. We disinfected it properly at practice. Phil said it was good practice to learn how to treat cuts like this." Phil's her fencing instructor. Good sort of guy, not that you'd know just by looking at him. He's Greek, but rather portly, and if you hadn't seen him handle a sword you'd have no idea what he was supposed to do in life. He can also play the pan pipes, and the lyre. He's apparently a big name in the SCA community too.

"You should probably bandage it up anyway, baby. Just in case."

"We don't have any bandaids big enough." I could see her winking at me. She's playing the tomboy card again. She doesn't do it too often, but when she does, I generally let it slide. Mostly because it means she's taken after me a little bit too. I'll take what victories I can get.

"Okay, but we're wrapping it up in the morning. You could always wear that sleeveless dress Tina bought you that you think no one knows about."

"Mom!" I can't help it sometimes, I tease _everyone_. And that's your fault, for rising to the bait so many times. I never dared do anything like that with Hans, but with you, with Kristoff, even with Joan here, it's worthwhile. They tease me back of course; I expect no less from my family. But she's smiling, so I guess it's not that bad of an idea. "Hey, if I start wearing a big bandage like that, people are gonna ask about the story behind it." Oh no. "So I can tell them my story." Here we go. "Or your story." Yup. "Or someone else's story…" why did I let her read Flynn Rider? "And I can change it every time." Maybe she's been reading tvtropes again. Multiple choice history, there. Too smart for her own good.

"You still haven't told me how this happened." I'm curious, because injuries like this do happen sometimes, just not to my baby girl. Phil did have us sign a liability waiver though, understanding that people might get hurt, and it that it might not be avoidable. I'll help her bandage it in the morning. Joan takes a deep breath, and when she speaks she's actually rather quiet.

"My gambeson tore. Adam got me with a high strike, and it caught the shoulder of my gambeson, ripped the laces, and went down my arm. It was an accident, and it was my fault."

"How was it your fault?" Because accidents aren't meant to be anyone's fault. That's why we call them accidents. But she seems pretty convinced this one was hers.

"I got there late, remember?" And I do remember, because I dropped her off, after we hit every red light on the way there. Five minutes had become fifteen by the time we arrived. I hate cross-town traffic. "I armed up, but I didn't check my gear. I would've seen how badly frayed that loop was if I'd have checked my gear. If this was a real fight I'd be missing an arm."

"That's not funny," because I suddenly saw a vision of her going through the rest of her life with only one arm. How difficult would that have been, even with modern prosthetics? She might actually have taken to one of the new interfaced models, but it would have been a life changing event—like nearly killing someone you never knew.

"I know mom, it's not funny—but it's true. I'm glad we don't live in that kind of time."

"It wasn't all bad," I slip her a wink as she slips her arms under the covers, shuffling slightly to get comfortable. "Remind me to tell you about the time me and Elsa tried on corsets…" Well, did her eyebrows shoot up at that. You remember that little boutique store, don't you? I still have that forest green piece we decided on—still wear it sometimes too. What, I like to feel sexy, and sometimes Kristoff's not around. Don't judge me. But you know that's not why we bought it, we bought it because it was a present to myself, for that christmas, and ever since you'd showed me those pictures, I'd wanted one. I'd never treated myself to that kind of reward before. I hadn't felt worthy. The leafy design around the edges hasn't faded either.

"Maybe later," Joan winks at me. "But you promised me a bedtime story."

She's right, I did. I keep my word, but I still have to ask: "Aren't you a little old for bedtime stories?"

"No…" Her voice is playfully whiny, but there's anxiety there too. She wants to know, and she's afraid I won't tell her. "But I gotta know—what happened after you hit auntie Elsa with your bike. You just got taken to hospital in the same ambulance, and…" Well, that's as good a lead in as anything, so I begin my story the next day. I leave out what happened that night, how Hans punished me for nearly killing someone, and what he promised to do if I failed to apologize to the young woman whose name I didn't know at the time. I still let her know about my injuries though, because they're integral to the story, much as I hate being reminded of them and how I got them.

—∞—

It was the next day, and I was sporting a black eye that had nothing to do with the crash. Apparently I had been a stupid little bitch riding far too fast for the wet roads. The protest that she'd jumped out in front of me had just earned me gut punch hard enough to double me over. I had to lie to the doctors, tell them it was from the crash—even though they'd seen me just yesterday. But doctors are smart. I wandered down clean, white halls, hearing monitors beeping and ventilators hissing. It sounded just like a movie hospital, even with the pages and the conversations held just outside patient's rooms.

There was one patient in particular I was looking for. I had to apologize if I wanted to not get hurt again. An orderly helped me hobble in on crutches—my ankle had been broken. I asked why they'd let me in, and they explained that the woman lying in that bed had no next of kin. At all. No parents, no siblings, no children, no friends, not even an ICE contact. I blinked back tears. She was alone in the world, and I'd nearly killed her—I would have been the only one to know she was gone, carrying her death on my conscience for the rest of my life. It was a sobering thought. My jacket lay next to her on the bed, and the orderly explained that they'd been unable to take it from her, no matter how hard they'd tried—she'd gone ballistic every time, and when they took it while she was asleep, when she woke, she was so panicked they'd had to sedate her. The orderly told me it indicated underlying psychological issues, so if she woke up, I had to be careful what I said.

I sat softly in an uncomfortable chair next to the blonde goddess's bed. My crutches resting between my legs and against my shoulder, because I wasn't sure I'd be staying long. Two hours later, she woke up. Her eyes were a piercing, crystal blue. I still didn't know her name, and apparently she'd been admitted as a Jane Doe because the only ID she'd had was the bank card in my jacket pocket. She coughed harshly, and I offered her the water from the bedside table. She pushed my hand away so hard I nearly spilled the drink.

"You nearly killed me," she croaked out, and it took me a long time to figure out the emotion behind her words. Because she wasn't angry, or worried, or anything a normal person would feel. She was disappointed. She was disappointed to be alive. Underlying psychological issues my ass—she was suicidal. I don't know why I hadn't seen it then; maybe I was just blindsided by everything that had happened. It only clicked on the taxi ride home how she'd said what she did.

That was pretty much the totality of our first conversation. Not the most auspicious of starts, but people have done more with less. I asked for a name, got stonewalled. Asked if she was okay; stonewalled. Asked if she minded if I visited again in a couple of days. She froze me out, completely. Not a word, not even a raised eyebrow. She just looked blankly ahead, like a deer in the headlights. But every time I asked something, she would scowl at me. She didn't answer, but I got the feeling I wasn't welcome. I can't say I blamed her either.

I made it home safely, and as I was walking up the porch steps I realized I hadn't taken the time to apologize. I doubted she would have listened anyway. I lacked a number to call her on, and her phone had been all but destroyed by the crash anyway. Yeah, great plan Anna, call the phone you ran over, it'll work brilliantly. I still have plans like that, even today.

—∞—

"Geez, mom, auntie Elsa sounds like she was kind of a bitch," and a shocked hand covered an equally shocked mouth. Joan didn't curse much, so when she did, it had an effect—usually on her. I smiled before answering her.

"She was, honestly, if I hadn't forgotten to apologize, I don't know if I'd gone back for another visit."

"I guess you did though, or I wouldn't be here." She's smart, although that one is blindingly obvious. She wants me to continue the story, I can tell, because she's trying to predict where it went. Well, some of it's going to be easy to figure out. And for some points I have visual aids, because we made a few videos, and tried to take lots of pictures. Until you dropped your phone in the lake—we got the pictures back though, you'll be happy to know.

"You're right—now if you'll let me continue the story?"

—∞—

I didn't make it back the next day, but I did see Kristoff. Told him I'd be off for some time with my broken ankle. He suggested I just work from a chair, or lying under everything, just like I always do. I couldn't, of course, because the painkillers were dulling my mind as well, and I needed to be sharp for work. He still asked for a medical certificate—for the company's records, because he could quite clearly see how injured I was. He tried brushing my hair out of my face, and I flinched. I didn't want him to see what Hans had done. I didn't want to get Hans in trouble. I was afraid if anyone found out he'd hurt me worse—or leave.

"Stop." I had to. Kristoff has a voice that urges you to obey. I held stock still as he approached, frozen in place while he tenderly brushed my hair aside. He frowned and shook his head, and I could tell he was both angry and disappointed. My fault for being careless. I was told that so many times I believed it. He let my hair brush past my eyes again, and when he spoke his voice was concerned. "You have to stop letting him treat you like this, Anna. It's not right."

"He's a cop—what can I do?"

We didn't know. Back then, we didn't. It was my excuse; my fear; my whatever; it was the reason I couldn't do anything about the situation I was in. Why people couldn't help me. I remember it was lunchtime, so Kristoff offered to drop me home, because I didn't live too far from our workshop. I told him I'd walk it off, and he laughed.

"Alright, feistypants. Take it easy." I did, making it about a block before urgently looking for something to sit on. No parks nearby, but there was a bus stop, so it had a seat. That was all I really cared about. The rest of the day was a blur, but I cooked something nice for Hans, and hoped he wouldn't ask about the woman in the hospital. To my great surprise he didn't ask anything, and he virtually collapsed when he came in the door. It was the weakest he'd ever let me see him. A moment later I knew why.

"Lieutenant Gaston didn't make it."

The news, the sirens, the bulletin at about 4:45. Everything came crashing together. I'd never really like Gaston—he was, honestly, a vain, arrogant bastard—but I hadn't wanted him to die. I'll admit, I was sad. Probably sadder than Hans was, because I was thinking about his friend, Inspector Lefou—a bumbling sort, but good at the paperwork side of the job, and a solid forensic analyst. Lefou was my friend too, and I knew this would hit him hard. I was torn now—did I go see my bitchy Jane Doe, or did I comfort a grieving friend?

—∞—

"So, what did you do?" Joan yawned widely. Any night she spent fencing I knew she'd sleep soundly. Exhausted people do that. I don't say anything, I just tuck her in, and she doesn't even protest this time. I pat her uninjured arm softly, and kiss her forehead, sweeping platinum bangs out of the way. She smiles sleepily at me and shifts under the covers. I pause at her vanity, and flick on the radio. It's playing The Fray — How to save a life, and I'm tempted to stay and listen, but she closes her eyes, and smiles again. I turn out the light and close the door to her room.

I'll tell her tomorrow.


	4. Trouble

**AN:** Sometimes I can knock out a chapter in a day, most times, not so much. This was actually pretty fast to write, but I have to admit to not being great at everyday domestic scenes. I tend to skim over them because they're so normal, but they're also vital to this story, so I'm working on improving my rendition of them. Comments, critiques and general reviews are all very welcome.

* * *

She likes bandages, Elsa, but I think I might have already told you that. She's kind of like I was as a kid, getting into all sorts of scrapes, and I swear to God she's _proud_ of these little injuries. She lies about them, of course, but its not to protect anyone—it's because she wants to be a badass, like her mom was. Is. I still have the leathers, and I still ride my bike sometimes. But it was you that showed me I shouldn't take shit from anyone. Anyway, back on topic, Joan's wearing a sleeveless tank, that same blue you liked so much. It's summer, for a while longer anyway, but I know she's doing it to show off her bandage. She's got her hair up in a princess braid, but she's tied a bandanna over it. Looks kinda rakish, which I guess is the point.

"We never should have let her read Flynn Rider," Kristoff mock-whispers in my ear.

"I heard that, dad." She pokes her tongue out at him, continuing with as much sass as she can muster—which, being a fifteen year old, is actually quite a lot. "And anyway, I'm way prettier than Flynn Rider ever was."

"Oh, I'm not so sure Snowflake, there was the time he visited Weselton."

"That totally doesn't count—that spell could've hit anyone."

"Sure it could." Kristoff's smiling too much for his own good, so I give him a little smack. He takes my wrist before I can deliver a second one. "I think I've been betrayed…"

I'm holding my tongue, trying to look innocent. That, or seductive, I'm not really sure what I'm going for, aside from distracting him. It works, and when our lips part, I can hear Joan's complaints about such public displays of affection.

"Eww, mom, dad, gross. There are _children_ here."

"Really?" I give our daughter a pointed look. "You've been trying to convince us how grown up you are for months now. This is something grown-ups do."

"Yeah, _other_ grown-ups. You two are my parents, I thought you had, like, standards."

"Oh, we do," I wave an airily dismissive hand at her. "Sometimes we just get caught up in the moment; don't we, Reindeer King?"

"Hey, leave me out of this," and the big lug holds up his hands like this is all my problem. Probably for the Reindeer King remark. You get drunk at a party once, and all your friends remember what you did. But hey, nothing was broken, and whoever photoshopped it afterwards did a pretty good job. That picture is the one in my locket, along with Elsa's, in the middle of her first major performance. That was the most sublime thing I've ever seen, to this day. Elsa could just lose herself in dance. It was like she would let go of everything, and the only thing that mattered anymore was the dance itself. She was a goddess of motion and beauty. Not unlike Joan with a sword. Speaking of which…

"You don't have fencing today, so you can just leave that right there on the counter."

"But mom…"

"No. Look, I know it probably completes your look, but you remember what happened last time?" She winced visibly. Now that had been an entertaining story to bring home. Carrying weapons in public, even those with foiled edges, tended to be a bad idea, even when dressed in obviously historical garb. The chagrined smile on her face as she sat there in the foyer, scabbard across her thighs, talking with Lefou, had been quite a sight. I hadn't known she'd also taken the sword for show and tell. Children.

"Okay, fine."

"You've got the bandage anyway, and you look pretty rough—I think you'll pass. Hmm…" Now comes the part where I take her idea and run with it. She wants to be badass, and I have just the thing. She's asking Kristoff questions in a rather confused voice as I dash upstairs to the master bedroom. My jacket is in the closet. It's a little large for her, of course, but hey, at short notice it'll do. I take it back down the stairs and throw it over her shoulders.

"Mom?"

"…adds to the story, baby. You took this from your vanquished foe, as recompense for making you bleed."

"Mom!" The way her face just lit up, I can see so much of us in there, and sometimes it hurts. Today's going to be a good day for her, I know it. We dropped her off at school and headed to work. Me and Kristoff, we work together. Our workshop isn't exactly large, but it's well appointed, and Audrey is a hell of a machinist. She's kept us going for a long time, and she can weld nearly as well as me or Kristoff can. Brunette, wears a small crystal pendant and overalls half a size too large. She's a bit of a bruiser, but that may have something do with her sister who fights in MMA competitions. We would also have Maurice, who's honestly a little nuts, but has a good head on his shoulders when it comes to process improvement. Except he's at home taking care of his daughter, Belle. She and Adam had a falling out, and apparently it got violent. She's only a little older than Joan, so it shook us all up.

Maybe that's why Joan started asking about me and Elsa. It might be she wants to know about other kinds of love, because she knows of two horribly abusive relationships; mine, with Hans; and Belle's, with Adam. The heartbreaking thing is that it's not Adam's fault. He has severe PTSD from a single tour in Kyrgyzstan, and it took a long time for him to come right. He still doesn't know his own strength, because he was equipped with first generation interface prostheses before he mustered out, and the limiters are unreliable. Worse yet is that his body—or his mind? maybe?—rejects the newer commercial models. Safer, sleeker, less… I'm not sure really. Less… unnatural.

I've often asked Kristoff if there was anything we could do to help, but it's beyond our capabilities. We do medium and heavy stainless fabrication for plant machinery. Completely different discipline to prosthetics work. It still wouldn't help Adam though, because most of the problems are in his mind, and while he does respond to medication, the side effects can be crippling. I talked to Belle about it once, because she knew I had an abusive ex. But this is different, because she really does love him, and he loves her, but there's a wall between them. She told me she'd rather suffer the abuse than see him so broken on those medications. I can't agree, not when I see the red marks and bruises that remind me of my own darker past.

"Feistypants, earth your work or you won't be welding anything down there." Yeah, I feel like facepalming, except all I'd do was smudge the visor on my welding mask. It's work time, and I have to concentrate. Everything else goes away while I'm welding, it's only me, the torch, my workpiece, and the filler rod. Nothing else exists, only the weld. One seam done, my mind wanders to how crazy Elsa thought I was for that—until she described dancing to me in exactly the same way. Psychologists call it 'flow', which is just a fancy word for getting lost in the moment, but somehow, it fits.

Quarter past one I get a call from Universal Heights, Joan's school. She got into a fight, but she was apparently provoked. I have to admit to being disappointed in her at this exact moment; but I'll listen to her side of the story. Maybe there's a good reason she's fighting. She's combative, even, dare I say it, tempestuous, in much the same way I was at that age. She doesn't often get into this much trouble though, just the usual playground scuffles. She's normally the protector anyway, making sure other people don't get hurt. I guess we're all proud of that. Even you'd be proud of that, right? I'm not sure Elsa's up there, but I keep talking in my head like she is. I like to believe she's watching over us—just my—our—family. Maybe she does it in secret, when she's not off dancing through the heavens being the beautiful angel she always was.

And then I tell Kristoff I've got to head out to collect Joan, and one short conversation later he hands me the keys to our car. He'll take the work van home if I'm not back by closing. The drive doesn't stand out in any way. Just mid-town traffic and a lot of lights. And at the school the first person to greet is Ms Yzma. She's a haggard old crone that seems to hate everything—but she's got a real mean streak if people try to damage the school. She past old twenty years ago. By rights she should be dead by now, and I think the only thing keeping her going is pure spite. She plans to outlive the contractors that demolished the east wing of the assembly block when the school had been foreclosed. No one knows who stumped up the money to save the place, it just showed up in the school account apparently, and no amount of digging could find that mysterious benefactor.

Because she was dead. She never existed, in fact. I might have spent a good portion of my life savings on preserving Elsa's legacy, but she spent the greatest part of hers on preserving and preparing for mine. She knew Joan would need a good school. I honestly don't know how much money is left in that trust, but apparently it could run the school for a thousand years and still have change. I have to admit I kinda like that idea. Less so the idea of needing to pull our daughter out of school for the afternoon. And there she is, sitting in the chair, blowing her bangs out of her face, trying to hide the cut on her cheek and her bruised knuckles at the same time. Looks like she got into a good one this time. She's also cradling her left arm a bit, holding tight against the bandage.

"Mrs Bergman, thank you for coming." As always, principal Jones was all business. "Joan got into a fight, as you can clearly see." Well, I had been told as much on the phone, and the evidence was on her face and hands. "This is obviously against school rules; no violence against other students will be permitted. No abuse, physical or verbal. I don't blame your daughter for standing up for her friend, but there are most definitely better ways to do things." There usually are, but I guess, like me, Joan loses sight of them in the heat of the moment.

"He left out the part where they hit Tink first," I gave a Joan a sharp look, then turned back to Jones.

"Is that true?"

"If it is, Miss Belafont isn't saying anything. My office is as far as this goes. No one was seriously hurt, people were provoked, and your daughter thought she was acting in the best interests of someone else."

"I totally was. You know Tink doesn't like violence." I do know, and I know how shy she could be sometimes.

"Even so, you shouldn't have thrown that punch." Yeah, she didn't like hearing that. Lashing out wasn't right, and I would have to have a talk with Joan when we got home. Self defense is one thing, which is all the other kids were probably responsible for. Joan had gone further than just protecting her friend though, due to having my temper—well, my younger temper. I'm an idiot sometimes. Maybe she needs to hear a different part of the story tonight—maybe she needs a lesson, not a story.

"Principal Jones, are we done here?" he nodded brusquely. I rose, firmly taking hold of Joan's uninjured arm. "Right, young lady, you're coming with me."

"But—"

"No buts. You know you're not supposed to fight the other kids." I let out an angry huff. "Damn it, Joan, I thought I raised you better than that."

"I…" I could see the shame and embarrassment on her face, and I loosened my grip on her arm just a little. "You did mom… but… you know, right?"

"I know baby, I know. It's not always easy being different."

"No, I meant… auntie Elsa, it's—she's—sacred. Sacrosanct"—it sometimes surprises me that our daughter knows words like that, but as much as she might be a scrapper 'cause of me, she got her smarts because of you. "If I let just one person say that without doing something about it, then… then everyone gets to, because there's nothing to stop them anymore." Ah, the classic fear/respect dichotomy. She hasn't figured out how to make them respect Elsa's legacy yet, so all she can do is hang the threat of punishment over their heads if they disrespect it. She definitely needs to hear more of the story.

"What about them hitting Tina—did they really do that?"

"Yes, mom, they did. After she told them what a good person auntie Elsa must have been for you to have loved her so much. Then they started insulting all of us, Me, Tink, you, and auntie Elsa. They hit Tink because she wouldn't let go of the idea that auntie Elsa must have been a good person. I guess… I guess maybe they thought they could beat it out of her." She takes a moment to rub her bandaged arm, but she's wearing a savage grin. "I made sure they didn't." I just shook my head. You want your children to turn out like you—but better than you were. Being a better fighter was_ not _what I had intended.

Maybe telling her about Lefou was a good idea—because _he_ wouldn't let me speak ill of Gaston, much of an ass as he might have been to everyone. Respect for the dead, and Lefou taught me some of that. Even if I didn't like someone, their being dead didn't excuse my words. Maybe that would serve as a good lesson, because Lefou had done all that without so much as raising his voice. That's where I'll pick up from next time.


	5. Respect

**AN:** Writing in different styles and tenses helps keep the mind fresh. On the other hand, some things become much harder to articulate than others. Anyway, delays, handwavium excuses, etc. Have some more story for your troubles.

* * *

We're home, and I sprawl out across the entire couch. Elsa's couch, which we never replaced. We never needed to, it's just so durable. Joan flops down on top of me in what may be the least ladylike manner ever. She's getting heavy, but it's all muscle. I wrap one arm around her, fumbling for the remote with my other hand. I channel surf, finding a music channel, turning the volume down. Just a little background noise. I give my daughter a pat on the back, trying to reassure her.

"Tina will be fine."

"I–I know, mom. It's just… ugh." Well, frustrated sighs never did sound pretty. But, there is a lesson here. Well, actually, I'll be giving her one, the same one Lefou gave me. With a few carefully chosen words he managed to change the way I saw Gaston completely. They're called revelations for a reason. Joan rests her head against my shoulder, and its at this point I realize how hard it is for both of us to actually fit on the couch—mostly because half of me is now hanging precariously over the edge of the seats and Joan is slowly sinking into the gap between the cushions and the backrest.

"Mom?"

"Yes?" I manage to ask before slipping sideways onto the floor.

"I think the couch is trying to eat me."

"Well, I'm sure it's gotten more than its fair share of popcorn and maltesers. Feel around down there, you might find some." I grin as she screws up her face at the thought. I know better, of course. Every few months I'll give the couch a thorough cleaning. Part of the reason it's lasted so long. She sits up a little straighter, lounging against the armrest the way I used to do. Yes, we share certain mannerisms. I take a seat against the other armrest.

"Joan," I begin, using my sternest voice. "You know you shouldn't be fighting with the other kids at school"—I hold up a hand to forestall any possible protest—"I'm not saying what you did is wrong—No, wait, actually I might be. _Why_ you did it is more important. Protecting Tina was noble, and the right thing to do—but we both know you didn't have to fight back. I've seen you training defense with Phil a few times, dagger and unarmed, I know you could've done it."

"They already hit Tink," Joan protested, hands balling into fists. "I couldn't defend her from both of them—I _had_ to attack."

"You could have walked away. Gone to one of your teachers, or just somewhere more open, where they couldn't corner you and Tina." She's too much like me, and I know even as I say the words they would never have been followed. I wouldn't have either. We protect our friends, sometimes with violence, sometimes all we need is a few words. And sometimes we need distance and perspective before we do something stupid.

"Mom, they would have followed us—and they were insulting everyone, especially auntie Elsa. I… I couldn't stand it."

"I know, baby, I know." I do, because Elsa's memory is something we all protect. For a long time after she passed even the smallest slight against her would get me fired up. More than once Kristoff had to hold me back. Then there were the few times he wasn't there to stop me. So yeah, there may be an assault charge still on my record. I regret that—I wish I'd known how to be a bigger person back then. Well, I had, I was just… overcome. It's not easy to get over the death of your best friend, lover, soul mate, and wife. Maybe I still haven't completely come to grips with it, but I live a relatively normal life now. Well, about as normal as anything in this crazy world gets.

"Mom?" There's a hand in front of my eyes. "You kinda just zoned out for a minute."

I blink, lowering Joan's hand with my own. "I was just thinking about the trouble I got into, fighting people that disrespected Elsa. I just don't want to see you making my mistakes."

"Then how can I make them understand?" there's a plaintive note to her voice. "How do I show them all the good you shared?"

"I don't know; but I know if you choose your words right, they'll know. It's how Lefou got me to respect lieutenant Gaston."

"He… he died, right?" Joan asks tentatively. "That night after you went to see auntie Elsa in the hospital."

—∞—

I went to see Lefou first. Being on crutches was actually a first too. It had been a startling week of firsts. Inspector Lefou was at home, on bereavement leave. Gaston had, after all, been his closest friend. Lefou's apartment was nice, if a little small. Cosy, he would always say. The décor and furniture had always seemed large for him though, but most items came only in set sizes, and he didn't normally fit into any one of those 'normal' categories. He was sitting at the table when I stepped inside, nursing a dangerously strong coffee. The disheveled hair and red rings under his eyes told me he hadn't slept a wink last night. I'd had problems sleeping too—but the reasons were much darker.

"Roland," I called out softly, hoping to catch his attention.

"Anna?" he turned, somewhat surprised. Maybe he wanted to be left alone. His voice was heavy, and edged with something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

"I, uh… hi?" I gave him a shy little wave. I wasn't really sure what to do. I knew that cops sometimes died in the line of duty, but it was something that happened in other places, never so close to home. I didn't have much experience comforting grieving friends anyway. I just didn't have that many friends. Not then. Lefou looked at me—past me—and I turned, trying to see what he saw in the empty doorway behind me.

Nothing.

I closed the door softly, hobbling over to the table. "Umm… can I help?"

"Can you bring back the dead?"

"You want him back?" there was an edge of disbelief in my voice. "After everything that bastard put you through?"

"Anna, I loved him. Dearly. I just want him back for a moment—just long enough to say goodbye." Lefou stared into his coffee for what seemed to be hours. "God… I miss him."

Well, I could understand missing him, even if he had been an ass to almost everyone he met. Everything was a competition. And he always had to win it, too. He was sure he could—too damn sure. He was vain, and arrogant. If he ever noticed me it was only to hit on me like I was some object that existed solely at his sufferance. I hated it. And, me being me, I told Lefou as much. I sometimes have problems with the whole brain-mouth filter thing. He looked up at me, a look of betrayal and disappointment etched across his face. I wanted to run, but that would only make things first. I just hung my head in shame, waiting for someone to hit me for being so tactless.

"Anna, sit," it wasn't a command, but I hobbled over to the couch anyway. It was getting uncomfortable just standing there.

"Roland, I'm—" he cut me off with a wave of his hand, sitting down heavily next to me.

"You didn't know him like I did. He… he was only like that in public."

"Really?" I raised an eyebrow. I'd honestly thought Gaston would be like that all the time. It hadn't occurred to me he might show different faces to different people. Like I eventually learned Hans did. Lefou set his drink down on the coffee table and wrung his hands.

"Anna, you know that I'm—"

"Yes, I know. There's nothing wrong with men loving other men," I'd known for a while that Lefou was gay; I was one of the few people he could confide in. "I mean, assuming he's nice to you, and you like him, and no one gets hurt like last time…"

Lefou reached for his coffee, taking a sip and grimacing. "He always was nice to me."

"I must be missing something here, because I've never seen this boyfriend of yours."

Lefou smiled sadly, taking my hand. He looked me straight in the eye, and until he spoke I had no idea what he had been trying to tell me without saying it outright. "You could always see him, you just never looked."

One hand wasn't enough to cover my shocked gasp. I fell forwards, burying my face in my hands. _How had I been so_ blind? Lefou was right, I'd never looked, because I'd never expected it… not from either of them. His sadness made sense—he'd lost more than a friend, apparently, much more. I wanted to ask how long they'd been together, but that just seemed rude. I held my tongue, brushing away a few stray tears.

"Roland… I'm… just tell me… I want to help."

"Will you just sit here with me, for a while?"

He fumbled around under the magazines on his coffee table, finding the remote for his sound system. I recognized the song after the first few bars. Chasing Cars, by Snow Patrol. Grey's Anatomy—Lefou had many times professed his love for that show, and the characters' tumultuous lives. Maybe Gaston had liked it as well. Maybe Gaston had watched it just to be friends with Lefou. It was a strange thought, that Gaston might have done anything for the benefit of someone else. Lefou was sobbing quietly, so I slid over and wrapped my arm around his shoulders. I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed right. He hiccoughed, smiling at me for half a second before the tears began again. Who was I to judge?

—∞—

At the time I had no idea what Lefou was going through. I only learned when I felt it myself, later, when I lost Elsa. I offer her a mental wave, and I like to imagine her waving back, wherever she is. I know now what Lefou felt, and how much my insensitive comments had shocked him.

"Inspector Lefou likes men?" Joan's first question, completely missing the point.

"Yes, he does. You've seen him out walking with Christian, haven't you?"

"Oh, so he's… and they…" Joan's doing that thing where she points in opposite directions with each hand. It's a sign she's putting things together in her head. "Oh…" That was when the penny dropped.

"You asked me something before I started telling you this story; you remember what it was baby?"

"I—Yes!" She smiles triumphantly. "So when Lefou told you Gaston was his boyfriend, that's when you actually respected Gaston?"

"Not really. I sort of did, but I didn't really get it. I figured it was just for Lefou; that I only had to be nice about Gaston around him."

"So if I tell those girls about Elsa, they'll only be nice about her around me and Tink?" Joan shakes her head, unable to accept such a limited victory. "It's not enough."

"No, it's not," I agree. "Lefou told me something just before I left: 'Being dead doesn't mean you stop respecting someone. Other people cared about him too. Imagine if that was you—what would they say?'." That was what stopped me back then. Forced me to take a fresh look at how I saw the world. _If I died the next day, what _would_ people have said? _Well, I have an idea what you might have said, given where we were at the time. Stinker. Anyway.

Joan's sitting cross-legged on the end of the couch now. I can tell she's processing all of this. It should help. I check the time on my watch, and somehow it's later than I thought. I flick Kristoff a text, telling him I'll be back at the workshop shortly; Joan's protesting, asking for more of the story. She wants to know if I saw Elsa that afternoon. Of course I did, but that's a story for later. Right now I have some responsibilities to take care of—and as punishment for fighting, Joan gets to do the dishes and the laundry. At least one of them needs to be done by the time I get home.

And later I can tell her about why Elsa was mad about my jacket.


End file.
